


Dark Surrender

by thesadchicken



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies - Sonnenfeld)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Edging, F/M, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27490183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: "She is fully aware that he loves the anticipation, the uncertainty. He doesn’t know what she will choose to do to him. He only knows that he will enjoy it."
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Dark Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> No plot here; I just love these two so much and wanted to write smut.

The candle wick crackles in the silence of the dungeon. The flame momentarily illuminates Morticia’s pale face, and she hovers, kissed by its flickering light. Then, just as swiftly, she disappears into the shadows. The click of her stilettos echoes in the far corner of the room, where she lights another candle. The walls glisten. The stone is dark and slippery.

Gomez’s wrists strain against his bonds, the leather cold and unyielding, digging into his skin. He’s bound to the rack; stretched, spread-eagled. The wooden frame is slightly raised from the ground. He turns his head to the side so he can watch as Morticia moves across the room. She lights the last candle, discarding the match with an elegant flick of her wrist. She doesn’t look at him, not once. Her indifference, feigned as it is, is still stinging. She walks slowly, swaying ever so slightly. Her hand slides along the wall, fingers brushing against the different instruments that hang there. A shiver wracks through his body. She is fully aware that he loves the anticipation, the uncertainty. He doesn’t know what she will choose to do to him. He only knows that he will enjoy it.

He sees her stop, vermillion fingernails tapping the stone right next to the cat-o'-nine-tails. He closes his eyes, smiling wildly, apprehension coiling in his stomach like a serpent. The crack of the whip sends ripples throughout his body, even though she has only struck the air. He opens his eyes and looks at her, and he is panting already. She tests the whip again, making it sing into the icy dark of the dungeon. Her smile is sweet, almost innocent. She is teasing, he can tell; she will not use the whip on him tonight.

It only heightens his arousal, to imagine the myriad of tortures she might inflict on him; to guess, to wonder; to fear her. At times she is as cruel as she is beautiful. He waits, heart thundering in his chest.

She returns the cat to its place on the wall, and it dangles there, metal-tipped lashes clinking against the stone. Finally, she turns around and looks at him. Her eyes travel up his naked body, pupils wide with hunger.

“My heart is poisoned with jealousy, Gomez,” she says. “I can’t stand the thought of anything touching you…”

He tries to remain still as she circles him, a lioness cornering her prey. She raises an eyebrow at him, the shadow of a smile playing upon her blood-red lips. “Anything but me,” she adds, voice heavy with lust.

Her hand falls to the wheel at the side of the rack and she pauses, pensive, before giving it a turn. The strain on his already taut muscles is enough to make his breath hitch as his ankles are spread wide, his wrists pulled to the metal bar at the top. He feels the burn in his arms, his back, his thighs. It’s excruciating. It makes him painfully hard.

“I’m jealous of the frame,” Morticia continues, pressing her palm to the wood right where it touches his back. She traces the arch of his spine all the way up to his shoulders, the bulging muscles below his neck. “I’m jealous of the leather”—she trails her fingers along his arm—“and the chains”—she stops below his wrists—“how they restrain you… how they twist your body into submission…”

“At your hand I would suffer a thousand times more,” he breathes, skin prickling under her touch.

His eagerness makes her smile. “At my hand…” she echoes, suddenly thoughtful. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, and he burns with the urge to reach, to touch.

She splays her hand across his chest, right above his racing heart. He knows she enjoys feeling it against her palm, the wild thumping, the rise and fall, the jagged breaths in his lungs. She looks at him through lowered lashes, her own desire burning in her eyes. Her hand sinks lower and she wraps her fingers around him. He is taken entirely by surprise: he expected her to torment him first, to make him squirm and thrash and beg. Instead she strokes him, slowly, and his eyes flutter closed.

“Look at me,” she orders.

He obeys, he always does. There is an intensity to her gaze that scorches him, but he can’t look away. Being here, tied up and exposed; vulnerable; at her mercy—it’s where he belongs. He has never felt safer. She knows this; she sees the gratitude in the way he looks up at her, in each shuddering breath. Thin fingers twist around the head of his cock as she leans in for a searing kiss.

“ _Querida_ ,” he sighs against her lips.

She kisses him again, harder, claiming him once more. More than ever he wants to lose himself in her, to know nothing but that mischievous gleam in her dark eyes; to be hers, completely. Her fingertips drag against him, tantalizing. He raises his hips, inviting her touch. She hums her appreciation, grasps him firmly and picks up the pace. She likes it when he’s desperate.

“ _Tu es irresistible quand tu es à ma merci_ ,” she purrs.

“Oh, Tish,” he moans, wishing he could taste the words on her tongue. Hearing her speak French drives him wild. He’s close—too close, already. “What are you doing to me?”

She squeezes and tugs, bringing him closer still. He is teetering on the edge now, gasping with each stroke, dizzy with pleasure.

And then she stops.

It’s so sudden, so brutal that he bucks his hips, following the severed touch. He can’t help but struggle against his bonds, his body protesting at the unexpected loss. Morticia watches him, lips slightly parted, and she is exquisite; so beautiful that it _aches_. He groans in frustration, flushed with desperate pleasure. She gives the wheel another turn, and he hisses, relishing the pain in his body.

She takes a few steps back, admiring his trembling form. “Seeing you like this,” she says, “pliant, helpless…” She reaches the long table in the center of the room and leans against it. “So _handsome_.”

The pull on his arms and back is nearly unbearable, but he can’t take his eyes off her as she shrugs her dress down her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, newly exposed skin gleaming in the candlelight. The black lace bodysuit she is wearing underneath leaves little to the imagination.

“Gomez, it sets my blood on fire,” she sighs, stepping out of her dress and moving it out of the way with one kick of her high-heeled foot.

“Then make me eternally yours,” he pleads. “Deny me; hurt me; brand me; my darling, I want to feel your name burning on my skin for days!”

Usually she would have silenced him by now, or punished him for speaking without permission. He fares ill in silence, grappling with his natural inclination towards loquacity; which is why she often forbids him to speak, as yet another testament to the power she holds over him. But they both know just how much she loves that tongue of his, and the string of obscenities that roll off it in the darkness of their dungeon. He has used it on her more than once, when the roles were reversed.

He sees it again now, the effect his words have on her. She leans against the table behind her, reaches between her thighs and spreads her legs for him to watch. Touching herself the way he longs to touch her, she tilts her head back, exposing that delicate neck, and her hair flows down her shoulders, cascades of black over her porcelain skin. She moves slowly, languidly, making small breathless sounds of pleasure.

Gomez is struggling wildly now, the wooden frame creaking, the rack groaning and the chains rattling. His helplessness only kindles her desire; she moves faster, circling then rubbing her clit with utter abandon.

Aroused and enraged, he growls his frustration as she reaches down again and pushes the lace to the side, exposing herself further to his hungry eyes. He thinks he might die from the sight of her: eyebrows curving upwards, nipples poking out from under her bodysuit, long legs shaking with pleasure. For a horrifying moment he wonders if she’ll satisfy herself and leave him here, hard and wanting. A moment later he finds himself wishing she would. Total subjugation; he aches for it, for the denial of what he so desperately craves. He would belong to her then, entirely. She is both destruction and deliverance—angel and devil—and by the gods, he wants damnation. He wants eternal punishment at her hand.

“Morticia,” he whimpers. Her name is a prayer. He is ready to beg.

She looks at him, and her movements become frantic, almost violent. He shudders under her gaze. It’s too much, it’s not enough—he _needs_ her. He needs her more than anything.

“Please,” he moans. Pleading for mercy or for punishment, he can’t quite tell. “ _Please_.”

Her eyes find his. She slows down, teasing herself, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Patience,” she says darkly.

The candles flicker, casting threatening shadows on the wall. She pushes herself off the table, undoing the bodysuit as she walks towards him. It falls to the floor soundlessly. Gomez bites back a moan.

She stands by the wheel, right next to him. “You may only come when I allow it. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” he rasps.

“Good boy.”

Another turn of the wheel makes him cry out in agony. He squeezes his eyes shut, giving her his pain; giving her everything, if only she would take it.

And she does.

The rack creaks as she climbs onto it, graceful as ever, and he could weep at the way her thighs brush against his erection as she straddles him. For a second, there is only stillness and the sound of his heavy breathing. She leans in and gently presses her mouth to his, her hair a black curtain around them, shielding them from the world. It’s only them, only this moment, filled with tenderness and pain, and he could live in it forever. Then he feels her hand on his cock, lining him up, and she lowers herself onto him inch by inch.

“Morticia!” he gasps; yes, it’s a prayer, a plea, and although she already knows that he worships her, the reminder seems to please her. She moans as she sinks all the way down, the weight of her body pressing down on his pelvis, making the chains rattle again as they pull harder on his straining muscles.

He howls in ecstasy. It’s beyond pleasure and beyond pain, sensations too closely interlaced to ever untangle, and the warmth around his throbbing cock harmonizes with his back’s agony. He is shaking uncontrollably, half-delirious with both suffering and bliss, moaning louder and louder as she rocks her hips above him. She moves up and down, losing herself to her desire and to the sounds he’s making. Her hand slides up his chest, grazes his throat, and stops just below his jaw. She grasps his chin, forcing him to look at her.

Her movements become desperate, erratic; she’s close now. He knows what seeing him like this does to her; he remembers the times she’s tied him up, used the riding crop on him; whispered sensually, _you suffer so beautifully, my love_.

She comes hard, crying out his name, and it takes every last ounce of self-control not to follow her over the edge. Her orgasm is long, shuddering, violent; she throws her head back and trembles all the way through it. He watches every single moment of it, feeling her pulsing around him, hot and wet and tight and it’s too much, too much—

“Morticia, _please_ ,” he begs.

She lifts herself off him, rising up until he slips out of her, and stays there, panting. He sobs in frustration, fighting the impulse to thrust up; it would only put more pressure on his back and arms, and he’s not sure he can take it.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he hears her whisper against his ear, and her fingers tease him, sliding up his weeping cock. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to own me,” he manages, trusting her to understand.

Her smile is ravenous. She kisses him again, caressing his cheek with one hand, the other pumping him mercilessly. His entire body jolts in pleasure; he’s been holding off for so long that it doesn’t take much to bring him dangerously close to release.

“ _Tu peux jouir_ ,” she says.

He shudders, body seizing up—he’s going to come—but right then she snatches her hands away. It’s too late, of course, and his climax hits anyway, pulsing dribbles down his aching cock. It doesn’t feel like completion; it makes him throb painfully, and he bucks his hips wildly, chasing the shadow of a pleasure that eludes him. There is beauty in it, this torment without end; he finds satisfaction in frustration, safety in submission. He savours the feeling. He belongs to her.

And she is there, holding him, soothing him with words and touches. His need burns out, replaced by exhaustion. She unties him, placing two gentle kisses on his wrists. Now that he can finally wrap his arms around her, he doesn’t know how to let go. He pulls her against him, pressing his lips to her neck. They stay there, chests heaving for air, fingers intertwined.

“We should move this to the bedroom,” she whispers.

“Tish?”

“The night is young, _mon cher_.”

He grins, squeezing her to him. “Yes, _cara mia_.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **French translation:**  
>  ✤ " _Tu es irresistible quand tu es à ma merci_ "—You're irresistible when you're at my mercy.  
> ✤ " _Tu peux jouir_ "—You can come.


End file.
